Comfortably Numb
by Spinning Circles
Summary: I've spent most of my life killing things that have been long dead. I'd come to gain a sort of peace; an acceptance of my fate. And then HE happened, decimating this acceptance, dragging his poor brother behind him. Damn him. That damned Dean Winchester.
1. Chapter 1: Is There Anybody In There?

Comfortably Numb

**PROLOGUE: Hello, Is There Anybody In There?**

_Scream__:__ applies __to __crying__ out __in__ a __loud, __piercing __way.__ To __scream__ is __to __utter __a __loud,__piercing__ cry,__ especially of pain, fear, __anger,__ or __excitement._

_**New Orleans, Louisiana**_

It was dark. It was ten o'clock at night. Of course it was dark.

And of course, there was work to be done.

Jacob Durocher grumbled as he drove to his workplace, the Saint Louis Cemetery. He was middle-aged with an undiagnosed heart problem that caused him painful palpitations. Yet, of course, he had to shovel dirt for a living.

The service had apparently been held late for the relatives who had taken the later flights from various parts of America. Of course, the customer's word is law.

Of course.

Jacob had just gritted his teeth, smiled and nodded when his employer had informed him of his delayed shift. He pretended that his children weren't at home, wondering when their father would be home. He pretended that his hands weren't shaking and aching from early-onset arthritis.

He sucked it up and came to do his work in the dark, his old Chevy pickup truck bouncing along the gravel road that led through the cemetery.

Parking in the designated spot next to Maurice's own car, the gravedigger shut off the engine, stepping down with his shovel in hand. He trudged over to dimly lit area where his coworker sat, the pit containing the casket near his feet.

"S'nother late one, no?" Maurice said, his voice betraying his annoyance.

"Let's jus' get this one over with so we can go", Jacob replied, digging his shovel into the large mound of dirt that sat next to the grave.

To be honest, even with the odd lateness of the ceremony, Jacob and Maurice could still have finished their work before sundown, if not for the time the mourners had spent exchanging stories of the deceased, but they weren't allowed to complain about that either. No wonder no one wanted this job anymore.

So they dumped dirt onto the gleaming polished wood of the coffin for a good fifteen minutes before Jacob noticed something wrong.

"Hey Mo, I don' see the lights", he spoke, interrupting their labor.

It was in fact true for once, and not just a ploy to get home to the kids early. The line of lights that usually showed on either side of the routes that branched off through the cemetery had gone dark, leaving them to work by nothing but the dim glow of their cheap dollar-store lanterns.

Maurice seemed not to give this much thought. "Leave it Jake. S'probably th'boss that got forgetful on the electricity bill again. C'mon, s'not like this hasn't happened before."

"You're right", Jacob answered thoughtfully. "But I could've sworn I-"

And then he heard it.

It was painful to listen to, and still he couldn't help but want to hear. The loud screeching cut through his senses like butter, melting and rushing over everything and drowning it in its sharpness.

It was a woman's scream of terror.

"God above! Did you hear that Mo?" he exclaimed, dropping his shovel.

"Jake, stop kiddin' aroun', you're startin' to overdo it", Maurice hissed, annoyed. "I don' hear nothin'."

Jacob paused, confused by his friend's denial. He shook it off. It was too beautiful to ignore.

"S'a woman's scream. Sounded like it came from over there", he suggested, pointing vaguely to a very specific area in the wooded section of Saint-Louis'. "I'm g'na go check it out."

"Don' go, Jake, you're being stupid!"

It was too late for him, though.

The scream sounded a second time, causing him to shiver and the hair to rise on his arms despite the fact that it was mid-May.

He made his way over quickly, ignoring Maurice's pleas for him to stop, for him to ignore it and come back, that it could just be some sort of owl.

Arrived at the bushes separating the cemetery from the rest of the woods, Jacob pushed on. It was too late for him to turn back now.

A third scream.

Finally running, Jacob burst through a thicket of thorns to arrive in a small clearing.

And there she stood.

Unearthly beautiful and pale in the moonlight that suddenly seemed visible through the smog that usually plagued the skies on beautiful nights like this. Yes, Jacob had decided that tonight was in fact nice, and not nearly as irritating as before.

She stood tall, yet delicate, dressed in a dark green cloak that allowed a pale dress to peek through at the bottom where it ended at her knees. Her hair was red and her feet bare.

She was impossible. No one that beautiful could exist in reality.

"I-I came, jus' as you asked", Jacob heard himself speak. He was surprised at this, as he had heard nothing but her cries of distress.

However , she smiled at his statement, her teeth peeking through those blood-red lips that contrasted with her pallor.

They were long, sharp and yellowed. They were inhuman.

Jacob trembled. This time, with fear, and not with surprise.

"Dear god", he whispered.

Those were the last words he ever spoke.

The beauty lunged, mouth open.

The world faded.

_**Hello again :) I've started something new this time around.**_

___**Yes, it is a Dean/OC, as I have some sort of curse that dictates that I absolutely love original characters. I plan on having this OC of mine play but in a small part of Sam and Dean's lives, and not have her progress past his short time. **_

___**I despise the idea of altering an entire seven seasons of a good plot with a person who doesn't belong (as I will probably completely and utterly fail at integrating her into the actual Supernatural storyline, and have therefore decided to make up a few hunts just to avoid that failure).**_

___**I'm going to attempt to use monsters that they haven't yet touched upon in the series so far,**_ _**and hopefully that won't mess things up too much.**_

_**Thanks again for reading :D**_


	2. Chapter 2: Just Nod If You Can Hear Me

**Chapter 1: Just Nod If You Can Hear Me**

_Hunter: __a__ person __who __searches __for __or __seeks __something._

_**Sleepytime Motel, New Orleans**_

_**One day later**_

"That's all. Thanks a lot for the help. Bye."

I hung up my cell, rubbing my temples and sighing.

It had been another late night driving to Louisiana from Arizona, and my sleep gauge was running on fumes. Not to mention the crappy fast food from a seedy diner on the way here.

Actually, I'd be shocked if I didn't suddenly come down with a rather serious case of food poisoning and get sent to some hospital by whatever poor guy found me throwing up every meal I'd had in the past ten years.

Problem was, this job wasn't something you could just call in sick for, or take vacation time off. No, this was a matter of life and death.

Literally.

Okay, maybe the people I saved weren't the most grateful ones in the world. Hell, I'd been shunned more often than thanked in my line of work. I'd even been brought into custody a number of times for suspicion of committing various crimes that something inhuman had actually been to blame.

But hey, no one ever believes the basket case who claims to have given ten years of her life to destroying property, desecrating graves and embezzling money all for a few hundred lives saved.

Especially not a young woman with little to no credentials and who had dropped out of school as soon as it was legal. A young woman travelling alone.

I allowed myself to fall back onto the single bed and drop the papers in my hands to the comforter.

Latin translations had always given me a headache. Too bad Google Translate sucked ass at getting things right and made me do it all by my lonesome.

Ancient languages had been an essential part of what little schooling I'd actually gotten over the years. Well, that and weapons training.

If I'd had to actually give myself a quote, like they do in those cheesy yearbooks that you get after graduation, it'd have to have been '_What a long, strange road it's been.'_

Yeah. Just like every other hippie with enough brain cells left to actually pick up a pen and write anything out there.

Only mine really _had_ been strange.

I mean, when you drive across five states chasing after a suspicion that something out of the ordinary might be happening, something's up.

What kind of twenty-three year-old spends her life on the road, eating heart attacks in wrappers for food and carries a full arsenal in her trunk?

Oh, right. I did.

Maybe it wasn't the best thing in the world, but it was one of the only things I was good at. Of course, anyone would be after a decade of learning how to shoot, slice, dice, banish and fight boogeymen and scary, scary ghosts.

Thinking it over made my chest ache.

Wasn't quite sure if it was the homesickness or that burger I'd eaten before.

And they say, '_Home is where the heart is',_ right?

Well, my home was with the only family I had. The one that had been missing for the past six months.

I shook my head.

No more ugly thoughts for tonight. I'd had enough evil for one day.

Slowly, I let my tired eyes close, only to fall into another nightmare of a different sort.

I awoke the next evening, cursing myself for not setting an alarm like I usually did to avoid this kind of situation.

I'd overslept.

I had been planning on going all FBI on the graveyard and interviewing the witness to the victim's last few moments in the company of a human.

I stretched, wrinkling my nose at the grubbiness of my clothes, which I'd neglected to change before passing out.

Picking up the sheets of paper by my head, I stood, slipping them back into the notebook that held everything I knew about everything evil.

Glancing at the clock, I noticed that though it might have been too late for the feds to demand any info or a visit to the coroner's, it was the perfect hour to go and visit a bar. Maybe the locals would know something.

Another perk of the job. And in my case, the drinking really helped to drown my sorrows and all that soap opera crap.

I cleaned up, taking a shower and slipping into a less plaid-shirt-and-old-jeans outfit and more of a passable-shirt-thing-and-less-old-jeans ensemble, even applying a bit of makeup.

Gotta look the part you wanna play.

Cass had always said that the best disguises weren't the ones painted on the face, but the ones bullshitted straight from the bottom of the heart. So, this was one-hundred percent pure crap, direct from the soul.

My sister, always the philosopher.

After having gotten ready, I got back into my Firebird, sighing as I pushed the sheathed hunting knife that sat on the empty passenger seat into the glove compartment. It still smelled of cheeseburgers and onion rings from my previous meal, but that didn't worry me too much. What _would _get my attention- and annoy me to no end- was any sort of damage dealt to 'my baby'.

I backed out of the seedy motel's parking area, heading for the closest bar in town. According to the map I'd picked up at a Gas'n'Gulp on the way over, that was Lou's Tavern.

It was time to put in a few innocent inquiries.

The only problem in that was attracting the right kind of person of which to ask these tidbits of information. Too corporate, and they haven't bothered with the news. Too middle-class and they won't even have cared enough to flip to the obituaries.

What I was looking for was specific; young, working class, full of himself and preferably good-looking.

That meant that I would have to be more aware than usual. So, no drinking for me.

Great. And right when I needed most was a good shot or two of whiskey.

I strode into Lou's pulling up a tacky stool by the counter.

The bartender, a woman a bit older than me, cleaned a glass with a rag a few feet away behind the partition.

"What'll you have?" she inquired, her voice low and gravelly. It reminded me of my father, who had been a smoker for most of his life before he passed away. He used to spend hours in his office, typing away at some new story on his ancient typewriter. I'd walk in at the end of the day to bring him dinner, only to be choked by a thick cloud of smoke.

I frowned, ridding myself of thoughts of my past. "I'll have a beer. Whatever you've got on tap."

The bartender nodded, sweeping off to get my drink.

'I guess it's time now', I thought, taking a deep breath.

I wasn't sure how I did it. I didn't even know how I first stumbled on it. All that I knew was that it started half a year ago.

Every time I used it, it got easier to access and stronger, almost like a muscle. Maybe it was a muscle. The whole thing was in my head, after all.

It could almost have been imaginary, if I didn't have the gnawing knowledge that it was real. More real than what you see on TV or in the movies by a mile.

I bit my lip. So my surroundings were too present in my mind for my taste.

I needed something stronger than a beer. But I couldn't. Not now.

I closed my eyes, withdrawing into myself, thinking of a particular type of man. I was focusing on the sort of guy I'd known I'd have to find before I even got here.

And there it was.

"Now, just to wait", I muttered to myself, taking a swig from the bottle that the bartender had brought over as I'd been internally rendering myself chemically attractive.

"Are you lost ma'am? Because heaven's a hell of a ways from here."

Looks like I didn't even have to wait at all.

I smirked, looking up into moss-green eyes set into a face that looked rough and polished at the same time.

He was maybe two, three years older than me, visibly muscled and tall. He'd also happened to take the seat next to mine.

His hair was brown, as was the stubble that added to the wannabe-bad-boy look. His brow was furrowed and his chin had the slightest cleft.

So, yeah. He pulled off 'wannabe-bad-boy' pretty well.

"I'm Ted Nugent", he said confidently, an almost sardonic grin making an appearance.

'Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh. Don't laugh', I thought furiously to myself, attempting to stifle any sort of giggle that might push its way up my throat.

I laughed.

"Did you seriously think that I'd fall for that?" I scoffed, taking another sip of beer. "If you're gonna give me a fake name, at least try for something more like 'John Smith'."

He chuckled. "Okay, fine. It's actually. Harry Jamison. And you?"

He was lying. It was also obvious to me that he was also suffering in some way, but the pain wasn't physical. No, this was deep-seated and psychological. And there was the loss… that crushing loss of someone close. But that was all buried beneath a thick layer of denial. It just screamed 'headcase' from my point of view.

God, if anyone had issues, it was this guy.

But hey, we all lie.

"Alison Braun", I supplied, smiling.

Dear god, did I have my work cut out for me.

_**Alright, so here's the first chapter :)**_

___**Again, I'd like to thank everyone reading this (as always).**_

___**Hopefully, you'll like this one and I won't end up taking forever to update again, as March Break is just now ending :/**_

_**Peace out :D**_


	3. Chapter 3: Is There Anybody Home?

_**Chapter two has arrived :D Sorry for the delay, and special thanks to acid-veins for reviewing, and again to**_ _**everyone who takes the time to read the crazy things I come up with xD**_

__Disclaimer: I own twenty pairs of mismatched socks, one pikachu hat and a Chuck Norris poster, but I unfortunately do not own Supernatural or anything else from this fanfiction that you might recognize.

-O-0-o-0-O-

**Chapter 2: Is There Anybody Home?**

-O-0-o-0-O-

_Liar:__ a person who tells lies; who is constantly untruthful._

-O-0-o-0-O-

"So, what brings you down here to New Orleans?" 'Harry' inquired, taking a gulp of his whiskey.

I sighed, as if in defeat. "Am I that obvious?"

He nodded. "I myself drove down here not too long ago, looking for work with my brother. Not much left to do in Dallas for people in my line of work."

"And that would be?"

'Harry' gave me a quick grin. "Construction. So, why're you hanging around?"

Now was the time. I was finally going to get something out of this stupid question-and-answer thing that so many people insisted on going through for the simple sake of image. I was never good at small talk. Maybe my imagination was lacking.

"Actually, I'm here for my cousin's funeral", I answered, biting my lip in faked despondency. "You might have heard. Coyotes."

'Harry' sat up a bit straighter, taking another swig of Jim Bean's from his quickly emptying glass. The furrows in his brow deepened and his pleasant grin faded.

"I heard. He happen to be Jacob Durocher?"

_Bingo. _

I swallowed some more beer. "Yup. We weren't real close or anything, but still, family's family. The least I could do was come up and pay my respects."

I leaned in a bit, being sure to retain eye contact and to get close enough for him to smell the perfume I'd bought in some department store for these types of moments exactly. Some brand name that cost me a small fortune in money I made from hustling.

Was it 'Anna Sui'?

'Annayake'?

'Harry' blinked, sending me spiraling back to reality.

Oh. I was supposed to find out what he knew.

Right.

"So, um, if you know anything, could you tell me? Me and Marie aren't exactly on the best of terms, and she wouldn't elaborate on anything after I came down", I added, sighing. "She always was touchy after Thanksgiving of '03."

Look at me go. Spouting crap from here all the way to that monster's little hidey hole. Cass would've been more than proud. She'd probably have gone out and bought me a round or four.

Okay, either I had ADD or I was _really _off my game tonight.

I was leaning towards the latter, as I'd been perfectly capable of staying awake during Latin lessons and teachings on other dead languages.

But it had really been target practice that had been my favorite class.

And I'd gone off subject _yet again_…

Yup, definitely off my game.

"I heard that he was out working when it happened, and that he was only gone for a few minutes before his coworker found him."

My drinking buddy had started to talk while my lights were on, but no one was home.

I hoped I hadn't missed anything while I was off in Lalaland.

"That's all I know anyways", 'Harry' finished, draining his whiskey and holding up his finger to the bartender. "One more."

So he only knew the facts that everyone else already had heard about from the paper.

Great. My diamond in the rough turned out to be a dollar store rhinestone.

So this whole thing was a total crapstorm too. And I didn't even get to drink.

I took another look at Mr. Yellowpages.

Mmh, a bit better now that I had the beer goggles on. Or maybe he'd always been this good looking and I'd just been too caught up in thinking to notice. The alcohol concentration in beer was pretty low after all.

Compared with vodka and whiskey.

So, I looked. And kept on looking. And looking.

Damn, just what the hell was good enough to distract me from _this_?

The job could go screw itself. I didn't even really like the job. I just deluded myself into believing that I was in it for the good of it all. Good and evil, you know?

Well guess what?

Sin had just come a-knockin'. And it was wearing a plaid shirt and motorcycle boots.

Boy, was I ever opening the door into that hell.

"How about we get out of here, Harry", I suggested, allowing a small smirk to pull at my lips. I then grabbed the whiskey the bartender had just set in front of him and downed it, coughing a bit from the sudden increase in the strength of my drink.

He grinned in return, showing off dimples.

"Sounds like the best damn thing I've heard since I got to this town."

-O-0-o-0-O-

We were making out in the back of the beautiful car 'Harry' owned.

He was pretty damn good at it too.

Everything was a blur of warm lips that tasted of cheap whiskey and strong arms that smelled of something familiar.

There was something missing. There always was, always would be.

But for now, this was the best it got.

Then it got interrupted.

"Hey Dean", some guy said, knocking on the fogged-up window of the car. "I know you're in there with some chick, but we gotta go."

'Harry', now identified as _Dean_, pulled away suddenly.

"Damn it, Sammy", he growled, opening the door. A dark-haired head peeked in a bit, hitting his forehead on the frame.

"God, Dean. Don't you have any respect for this woman?" he seemed genuinely annoyed. I wondered at what.

Then I realized that my shirt was unbuttoned. "Oh. Sorry."

I pulled my blouse together and slid out the other side.

That car really was a beauty. A black '67 Chevy Impala in mint condition. Not exactly easy to find, well, anywhere.

Trust me. I'd tried.

A scuzzbag guy who worked the night shift didn't deserve it. No one did.

As I pondered this, standing half-naked in front of Dean and his brother 'Sammy', ignoring the little spat they were having, I realized how much money and effort went into a car like this.

This was a gas gazzler, and with the price of oil these days, roadtripping in this beauty didn't come cheap. And the engine… I mean, I loved classic cars like I loved chocolate, which is to say, _a lot._ But their engines were finicky at best.

My mind kept struggling to realize that one and one and one is three.

In the background, Dean and his brother kept fighting it out.

"Sam, I was respecting her just goddamn fine before you came along", Dean retorted, pulling his shirt back on.

"Sure", Sam replied, his tone sarcastic. "You were respecting her all over the backseat of the car. Which, keep in mind, I'm going to have to ride in too."

"Look, most people go to bars looking for a good time. And you know what she's going to remember when she thinks about tonight? She's going to remember some puppy-eyed sasquatch raining on her parade."

Sam sighed. "Okay, maybe I ruined her night, Dean, but I'm doing it to potentially save someone else's life. And if you ask me, that's a pretty good deal."

They just kept on going at it and going and going.

God, would they ever shut up? I couldn't even tell if Dean was the only one annoyed by the situation.

It was in that moment, ironically enough, that I realized that I couldn't tell which emotions Sam was feeling.

Cursing, I bit my lip, grabbed my purse out of the side of the car and buttoned up my blouse properly.

These guys were hunters. And one of them was like me.

Judging by past experiences, which I'd had more than enough of, this wasn't going to end well.

So, before the fat lady could sing, I took off, running as hard as I could in the opposite direction.

-O-0-o-0-O-


	4. Chapter 4: Come On, Now

_**Chapter 3 is finally here :D Special thanks to Zororenjilover and ariesrobin for reviewing.**_

Disclaimer: I own twenty pairs of mismatched socks, one pikachu hat and a Chuck Norris poster, but I unfortunately do not own Supernatural or anything else from this fanfiction that you might recognize.

-O-0-o-0-O-

**Chapter 3: Come On, Now**

-O-0-o-0-O-

_Persuade: __to prevail on a person to do something by urging or advising._

-O-0-o-0-O-

_**One day later**_

_**New Orleans Morgue**_

"Poor bastard", the coroner noted, uncovering the body that had once been Jacob Durocher's.

What was left of him, anyways.

Large, jagged bite marks peppered his revealed torso and face, and his arms were nothing more than a mess of exposed muscle and ligaments.

"These teeth marks look too clean to be coyotes. Besides, aren't they scavengers? They feed on what's left by other predators, right?" I inquired, leaning in to closer observe the bites.

"That's the problem. I tried to convince the sheriff of the same thing, but there just isn't any other explanation for this."

I sighed. This was a ghoul. It had to be. Nothing else left this much behind.

Nothing else was this brutal.

-O-0-o-0-O-

Frowning at the heavy heat outside, I stepped out of my Firebird and made my way over to the run-down bungalow belonging to the witness.

My sensible heels clacked along the pavement walkway, and my dress shirt, pencil skirt and matching business jacket were stifling to say the least. I don't think I'd ever hated the uniform more than in that very moment. Or having to pretend to be a fed.

My head was throbbing as a consequence to the stupor I'd drunk myself into last night after the run-in with Thing 1 and Thing 2. Something had been required to get me to sleep. And I'd run out of forged sleeping pill prescriptions.

But the job wouldn't do itself, and there were very few others out there willing to put in the work.

Biting my lip and squinting through the sun, I knocked on Maurice Hervelle's door.

"I told you for th'last time yesterday, I don' know nothin' else!" a deeply accented voice called out. "An' I'm sick of all your questions!"

"FBI, Mr. Hervelle", I stated in a firm voice, rubbing subtly at my temples. "I have a few… other things to ask that the police department didn't get around to."

The cracked door slid open, brought to a stop by a thin chain keeping it in place.

A man's face, tanned, worn and haggard peeked through in the slightest, his eyes shadowed by heavy circles and his chin covered in a thick white stubble. "What'chyou wan'?"

I flashed my badge. "Agent Frisk. May I come in?"

After what seemed like eternity, Maurice looked down and nodded, closing the door up. I heard the click of a lock being released and the door swung open again.

Stepping inside, I was greeted by a surprisingly neat home.

"Please, sit", Hervelle said quietly, motioning to an overstuffed loveseat, taking the worn armchair facing it for himself.

There was a thick silence before I thought to proceed with the questioning.

"Mr. Hervelle, as you have already deduced, I'm here to ask about your coworker, the late Jacob Durocher", I spoke, switching to a better manner of speaking for this part of the process. It was only fitting that an agent of the government, who would be fully qualified, would sound professional and well-educated.

The real me?

Not so much. Usually I said stuff like 'thingy', and other technical words like it.

They said Shakespeare's vocabulary stretched over 25,000 words. In comparison to him, I was a monkey holding a jumble of Scrabble tiles.

Okay, that was a lie. In comparison to _anyone,_ I was a monkey holding a jumble of Scrabble tiles.

"So I guessed", he muttered, his heavy gaze on me. "Now, what d'you wan'?

"Mr. Hervelle, did Mr. Durocher have any enemies? Anyone who would've done anything to harm him?" I inquired, leaning forwards slightly to catch any elusive bits of speech that I could possibly miss.

His reaction to my question was pure shock. "You sayin' that Jake's death wasn't no accident?"

"No, I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, I'm just required to ask a few routine questions in order to confirm anything", I replied.

"No, Jake didn' have any enemies", Hervelle told me. "But he was actin' real weird b'fore he was attacked."

Is that so? In what way?"

Maurice was shaking his head. "Crazy stuff. Said he coul' hear a woman screamin'. But there wasn' anyone there. Jus' me an' him, doin' our work. An' then he jus' took off runnin' towards the woods, an' he never came back. Tha' was when I foun' him."

Well, if that wasn't a gamechanger, than I didn't know what was.

A scream, and an untimely death caused by bites too big to be animal.

People see what they want to see. The only exception to that rule is when the unseen _wants_ to be acknowledged. That's why Durocher's death was classified as a coyote attack.

"And there wasn't anything strange going on in the days before Mr. Durocher's passing?" I asked. "No unexplained events? Did he see anything before that night that you would have called strange?"

Hervelle shook his head. "No. I'm 'fraid not."

I got to my feet, straightening my jacket. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Hervelle."

With that, I shook his hand briskly and walked out to the door, pondering what I'd learned here.

-O-0-o-0-O-

Making my way over to my Firebird, I heard another car pull up.

A car whose engine purred like a '67 Chevy Impala.

"Shit", I cursed, glancing over to confirm my suspicions.

Dean, driving, and Sam, riding shotgun. Blue Oyster Cult blared from the speakers, and they were suited up. All prim and clean and ready to interrogate.

And judging from their expressions, they'd noticed whose car was blocking the driveway.

My guess was that they weren't too happy with my interference in this hunt. But I was caught like a deer in the headlights, and I could feel that Dean was changing from shock to anger pretty damn quickly.

I stuffed my keys into the pocket of my jacket. Swerving around my car's hood, I took off sprinting. My heels dug into the balls of my feet, causing me to wince in pain as I passed their Impala.

I heard a car door open and slam shut, and I realized that Sam was in pursuit. My strides were impeded by my skirt, so making a sudden turn down an alley, I slowed and ripped the seam up till my thigh. Cass had taught me how to sew. I'd fix it later.

My running now unobstructed, I could feel my breath entering and exiting my lungs, my legs moving over the concrete and I could hear Sam's running behind me.

I was flying. No one could catch me. I was invincible. Or at least, that's what my runner's high wanted me to believe. I wish I was that untouchable. It would save me a hell of a lot of bandages every time some nasty beastie wanted a bit of me to munch on.

And then I was really flying. But I landed in a sweaty, panting heap under my pursuer. Sam had tackled me.

-O-0-o-0-O-

"You mind explaining what the hell you're doing?" Dean's annoyed voice came from above.

Sam had me pinned to the alley wall, his large frame felt smothering.

I could almost taste Dean's anger and suspicion because of their tangibility. They were heavy on my tongue, like the heat from Sam's arm, keeping me restrained.

"Investigating a lead", I answered through gritted teeth.

"That's not all you were doing", Dean said, his voice cold. "You aren't a fed. I know a forged badge when I see one. It's good, sure, but I know my fakes."

I exhaled. "I'm a hunter."

Sam turned to meet Dean's eyes. If anyone had ever been skeptical, it was Dean in this very moment. Sam? He was like a blank slate. I couldn't feel anything coming off of him. That's also why I didn't just try to do the pheromone thingy. He wouldn't be affected, just like I wouldn't be by his ability.

"And one of you is like me", I added, staring pointedly at Sam.

There was a pause, and Dean spoke. "Get her into the car Sammy. I'll follow her in the Firebird she's got parked over at Hervelle's."

"No! You are _not _driving my baby anywhere!" I exclaimed angrily, struggling.

"Keys, Sammy." Dean held out his hand. My keys were fished out of my pocket, and dropped into his awaiting palm.

There was only so much that I could take.

You could take my dignity, my pride, my self-respect and my reputation and step all over them, but you could never, _ever_, take my baby.

Sam had to drag me, kicking and screaming into the Impala.


	5. Chapter 5: I Hear You're Feeling Down

Disclaimer: I own twenty pairs of mismatched socks, one Pikachu hat and a Chuck Norris poster, but I unfortunately do not own Supernatural or anything else from this fanfiction that you might recognize.

**Chapter 4: I Hear You're Feeling Down**

-O-0-o-0-O-

_Convince: __to move by argument or evidence by belief in order to persuade._

-O-0-o-0-O-

_**Shipwreck Inn**_

_**1 hour later**_

Dean was pacing.

Round and round the room he goes, where he stops, nobody knows. If he ever stops, that is.

Sam was sitting on the bed, his brow furrowed and his hands clasped tightly around a hunting knife. I could almost read the thoughts that raced across his distraught face, even if he was the blank spot in my abilities.

Me? I was tied to a chair, under a devil's trap. No biggie.

After they'd dragged me, bound and gagged into their room, they'd immediately gone with the whole 'you're a demon' idea and stuck me where I was currently seated.

Dean's growl of frustration roused me from the daze I'd settled into.

"I can't take this anymore", he spat, heading for the duffle bag that sat at Sam's feet. Rummaging around inside, he wrenched out a plastic gallon of some liquid, a metal container of some sort and a gleaming knife, which I guessed to be silver.

I squirmed in my seat, struggling to get out of my constraints.

A sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach gripped me, taking control of every single one of my rational thoughts and emotions. I couldn't fight my way out of this. I couldn't come up with a plan to get away. No, the utter terror had complete hold over me.

Just because I was a hunter didn't mean that I was a big fan of pain. If anything, I went out of my way to avoid it. What kind of sane person wouldn't?

That and the idea of my own blood spilling out made me feel queasy.

Dean, still fuming, slid the knife into his belt and approached me with the plastic gallon. I'd already guessed what it was. Holy water. Most likely blessed by the two hunters themselves. After all, you don't exactly need a preaching license to do it. Just a working knowledge of Latin and a crucifix or two.

Unscrewing the cap in one fluid motion, he then proceeded to pour the whole freaking thing onto me.

I screamed, hissing curses at him.

Dean turned to Sam, an eyebrow raised. "See? I told you, Sammy. Demon. It's always a goddamn demon."

I spat out a stream of the stale water.

"No, you idiot. That crap is freezing", I stated loudly, annoyed now more than ever. "You notice my eyes turning black? Or any steam coming off of my skin?"

Sam looked up guiltily, hesitantly shaking his head.

"I didn't think so", I added frigidly.

"That doesn't prove that you aren't some other monster", Dean inferred, striding closer and reaching for the blade hanging from his hip.

I inched away from the knife as much as I could, knowing what he intended on doing. As I said before, I was no masochist in the literal sense. Hemophobia was no joke to me. I'd take rotting corpses and cannibalistic creatures over watching myself bleed any day. Hell, I'd even rather see something else bleeding than watch that coppery red stuff slip out of me.

Again, Dean's face twisted from slight uncertainty to blinding determination. I then realized how much he stuck to his values and beliefs. He was a hard person to change, let alone to corrupt.

I considered plucking at the strings of his sense of sympathy by doing that _thing,_ but I dismissed the idea once I noticed that I couldn't access it because of my paralyzing fear.

I was shaking. And sweating. I would've cried if I hadn't been so set on keeping the tiny scrap of dignity I had left.

Then I felt it.

The sharp sting of the blade piercing the flesh of my forearm invaded every single one of my senses. The cold, searing pain of an open wound followed quickly, pushing me to bite my lip and shut my eyes tightly to avoid screaming again.

"No sizzling. So she isn't affected by silver. I guess we can rule out shapeshifter, lycanthrope and about half of everything out there", Sam's calm voice spoke.

"Just one more thing", his partner said gruffly. I then heard the sound of yet another top being removed from a container. My brain devoid of any and all logical though, I had no idea what to think.

I thought the worst. Some sort of acid. A pint of some obscure creature's dead blood.

I honestly could not think straight.

It was then that I opened my eyes, desperate to avoid any more torture. I did so just in time to watch Dean throw a pinch of salt directly into the deep cut that oozed red.

I couldn't help myself. I whimpered, ever so quietly.

And Dean, with his apparently super-sonic heating, managed to detect that miniscule sound.

He took his time, inspecting the cut for any signs of the telltale fizzling or my sudden disappearance. They never came.

Still skeptical, he finally raised his head.

"Fine. She's human."

I breathed a sigh of relief, the weight of the fear lifting for but a moment before settling itself yet again on my shoulders. At least it wasn't nearly as paralyzing as before. I was once again capable of coherent thought.

There was a long silence, in which Dean chose to collapse on one of the beds, while Sam peered up at me with big brown eyes from under his bangs.

He reminded me of a beaten puppy. I almost felt sympathy for him for a few seconds before remembering that he was the one to tackle me and steal my car.

So I returned to my previous contemptuous glare, fidgeting with the knot, hoping to get free and return the favor.

-O-0-o-0-O-

Even after I was untied, they kept a gun leveled at my face.

They still didn't trust me.

Good thinking. I definitely didn't trust them either.

But there was only one thing stopping me from lunging at either of them and tempting my chances with fate; the fact that we were both after the same thing, and that they still didn't know what it was.

But I did.

From what I understood of their brief conversations, they'd visited the morgue, only to conclude that it was a dim-witted ghoul. Easy to deal with and dispose of.

They were wrong. I had the missing piece of the puzzle. The info that they needed to kill the thing properly.

"You're after the ghoul, right?" I asked tightly, gritting my teeth as they shared a suspicious look.

"What do you know about it?" Sam asked, keeping his voice steady.

"I know that you're going to try and find it", I replied, my jaw flexing against the instinct to forget common sense and get out of here.

"What else?" Dean inquired, a frown set into his face.

I licked my lips, twiddling my thumbs to distract myself from the fury that I felt rising up in me. "I know that you're going to try to kill it."

"Go on. Continue", he stated, one arm against his chest, keeping his shotgun pointed at my head.

"I know that it isn't going to work."

The two hunters shared a look.

"So, what? You can see the future now?" Sam scoffed. "I thought that your thing was manipulating people's emotions and casting some sort of freaky love-spell over them."

I glared at him. "No. My 'thing' is producing pheromones, not 'casting some sort of freaky love-spell over people'."

Sam sighed, rubbing his left temple. "Just cut to the chase. Stalling us isn't going to help anyone, least of all you."

"Fine."

My voice seemed to echo through the suddenly quiet room. Both sets of eyes were fixed on me, watching my every move. It was worse than being placed under a microscope. If anyone knows how to scrutinize, it's a hunter.

"You're going to try the silver stake. But that won't work. You neglected to interview Hervelle, so you forgot to factor in a major element into your plans."

I shifted, leaning forwards slightly, my hands resting on my knees.

"Before he was killed, Durocher told Hervelle that he heard a woman's scream. A scream that Hervelle never heard at all. It was after that that he took off like a bat straight out of hell."

"Sonnovabitch", Dean muttered, letting himself fall back to lean against a wall.

"We've got ourselves a banshee."

-O-0-o-0-O-

**_Sorry that it's been so long. I've had quite a few things going on, and though I know that that's no excuse, I hope that you'll bear with me and forgive my lack of updates._**

**_Summer grows near, and my finals are coming to an end, so my posting should get a lot better in the next few months :D  
><em>**

**_I mean, let's be honest here. I'm going to be glued to the computer either way, so I might as well get some writing in :3  
><em>**

**_Thank you so much for your patience, and thank you again for everyone reading this story.  
><em>**


	6. Chapter 6: I Can Ease Your Pain

Comfortably Numb

_**I really should apologize for how long it took to get this chapter up. I have no excuse (sadly enough, my life isn't eventful enough for a valid reason for not updating, I'm just incredibly lazy), but here I am, back from the dead.  
><strong>_

_**I figured, with my miraculous return, I should probably clarify a few things.  
><strong>_

_**1) This story is set in Season 2, somewhere between episodes 4 and 5 for the time being, though when that changes, I'll be sure to inform you :D  
><strong>_

_**2) Most of what is in this chapter on banshees is made up. I'm sorry for any purists out there, but banshees are traditionally harmless and nothing more than death omens. How else was I supposed to kill something that isn't needed or wanted dead?  
><strong>_

_**3) Thank you, every single one of you, for reading this. It's awesome to have readers, since I'm usually too awkward to have people I actually know read my writing. So, again, thanks :)  
><strong>_

_**On with the story!  
><strong>_

Disclaimer: I own twenty pairs of mismatched socks, one Pikachu hat and a Chuck Norris poster, but I unfortunately do not own Supernatural or anything else from this fanfiction that you might recognize.

**Chapter 5: Well, I Can Ease Your Pain**

-O-0-o-0-O-

_Cooperate: __to work with others towards a common goal._

-O-0-o-0-O-

_**Dean Winchester's Impala**_

_**3 hours later**_

-O-0-o-0-O-

I hated stakeouts.

As much as I loved classic cars and driving them, I hated sitting around in the passenger seat, waiting for something to happen.

It was the heat. The resulting smell emanating from previous artery-clogging meals. The stickiness of the seats. The lack of wind rushing through my hair.

But there was something even worse about the job than stakeouts. And that was being the piece of meat on the string to lure in those big bad boogeymen.

Yup. Since Dean and Sam had decided that though my information had been somewhat useful (instrumental, really, but there was no way in hell that they were ever going to admit to it), I had been let live, though I was seen as 'expendable'.

So here we sat, waiting for night to fall, and for me to most likely get eaten alive.

I was stuck in the back seat, while Dean drove and Sam got the passenger seat. Of course, he kept his shotgun in hand, just in case if they decided if my services were no longer needed.

Hunters tended to take the whole "riding shotgun" idiom literally. I mean, I'm actually pretty sure that Samuel Colt was the one who came up with the term. You didn't survive hunting demons in the wild, wild West by sitting idly like a pig being carted off to slaughter.

Up front, Dean fiddled with the dials on the radio, going through a country station, a crackling pop song, some woman wailing her lungs out and some classical music before settling on a station that was playing 'We're Not Gonna Take It' by Twisted Sister.

The car was idling, spewing fumes and expired gases into the cooling air of the cemetery.

The large presence of an awkward silence was becoming unbearable to me. So, being the even less socially conventional idiot who can't take a hint and shut up for her own, decided to initiate contact.

"What're your real names?" I asked, leaning forwards a bit.

Sam uncomfortably shifted his shotgun so that he once again had a clear shot at me. Just in case.

"You heard 'em. No need for twenty-one questions", Dean grunted from the wheel, digging through a pile of wrappers that lay by his feet to finally haul out an unopened brown paper bag with grease stains spotting it.

His hand uncrinkled it and fished inside to grab a burger. He then tossed the bag to Sam.

I bit back a scoff. "I doubt that your last name is actually 'Jamison'."

"Winchester", Sam said quickly, before his partner could interfere. "Like the gun."

"Figures", I muttered.

Irony. Oh, irony.

Why the hell did it always seem to end up happening to me?

As Eddie "Fingers" Ojeda burst out into solo, the car remained soundless, save for the electrifying guitar chords that resonated through the Impala's speakers.

"What about you?" Dean asked as soon as Jay Jay French picked back up. "Last I checked, this game is you ask, I reply, then I ask, you reply."

I huffed. I didn't want to have to answer that question for one specific reason.

But I guess that it was a better alternative to getting a chestful of rock salt. I didn't do too well with condiments driving themselves into my bloodstream.

"Promise not to laugh?" I mumbled, giving Dean a particularly nasty warning glare.

"Why in the hell would I do that?"

"Just… Never mind. I give up. Laugh all you want", I grumbled, shifting back to lean my head against the back of my seat.

"What's your name then?" Sam inquired, turning to face me.

Might as well go all story-teller on them. Not much else I could do. Besides, maybe if I gave them the whole story, Sam might not even mock me. Dean? There was no way that he wouldn't.

"My parents, being the mega-hippies they were, went to Woodstock. But they had a job to do, so they only made it for the last day. So, they missed out on Santana, Grateful Dead, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Janis Joplin, The Who and Jefferson Airplane. But they were there for Johnny Winter, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and most important of all, they witnessed Jimi Hendrix make magic with that guitar of his firsthand", I began.

"Don't get me wrong; the man was a god. I just can't listen to him. Ever."

"And why's that?" Sam questioned, facing me fully, sawed-off shotgun forgotten by his side.

"Because after whatever drugs they'd dabbled in while promoting peace, love and a monster-free world had worn off, I was born. My older sister got named by my grandmother, so she got off lucky with 'Cassandra'. I got the short end of the stick."

"Get on with it already", the elder Winchester spoke, taking a bite of his burger.

"My name is Hendrix. Hendrix James."

Silence.

The song on the radio switched to 'Whole Lotta Love' from Led Zeppelin.

And then…

Dean spat out a chewed-up piece of meat, bun, ketchup and mustard, choking on laughter.

I gritted my teeth, waiting for him to stop gasping and clutching at his stomach. Even Sam, who didn't seem as bad as his brother, had a smile on his face that showed he was trying his hardest to keep the chuckles from escaping.

Oh well. At least he was trying.

"Well then, 'Jimi'…" Dean snorted, a devilish grin on his lips.

"Hana", I replied. "It's Hana."

"Too bad. Jimi."

I groaned, letting myself fall sideways to lie on the back seats.

-O-0-o-0-O-

After a whole bunch of cracks made by Dean, dozens of classic rock songs and a few hours, it was finally dark.

Which meant that I was promptly thrown out of the car with nothing but a 'Bye bye, Jimi' and the tiny little thing that was once my pride. I hated playing bait.

I knew that they were following not far behind, but even so, I couldn't help but feel a hint of fear prickling at the back of my mind as I advanced deeper into the dimly-lit grave yard. It wasn't as if I had the artillery I usually brought with me. No, I had to play innocent bystander.

Innocent, unaware, ready-to-eat bystander.

You know, maybe I should've taken the wiseass comments, or, hell, even the round to the chest over this.

Okay, maybe not. But still.

If I have to creep around a place where countless people's bodies (and possibly their vengeful spirits) and a cannibalistic ancient fabled creature reside, I'll do it on my terms. Not on the Winchesters'.

So, toting my cheap flashlight and stumbling along through rows of graves, I advanced. On their terms.

I paused in the area where Jacob Durocher had last been seen, waiting to hear that scream that compelled said innocent bystanders to rush to its source. To greet their fate with open arms and resignation in their hearts.

Nothing.

I kept pressing on, now entering the wooded area completely, but something wasn't right.

Something rustled in the bushes behind me.

Problem was, it was too loud for it to be some age-old ghoul with a thing for screaming.

A few seconds later, out shot Dean, a wild look in his eyes and a fierce determination in his step.

_What? _

And then I realized.

_Oh. Oh no._

I wasn't the one hearing my death wail. It was him.

Swearing under my breath, I trudged along after him, Sam nearly running into me as I did so.

"Is he-?" Sam asked, sounding a bit winded.

I nodded, giving him a look.

"He punched me in the stomach when I told him to stay put", he added, continuing forwards.

"I doubt he ever does what you tell him", I muttered as I followed him, thinking of how insolent Dean could be.

Sam gave a short bark of laughter. "Tell me about it."

At that moment, his brother popped out of sight, inciting us to give chase.

We ran. We ran as hard as we could, shouting his name out as we dodged the outcroppings of tree roots and small bushes.

Eventually, we skidded to a stop, finally finding Dean in an empty clearing, staring off into empty space.

"She's so beautiful", he murmured, moving to step forwards, only for Sam to hold him back.

Dean promptly punched him right in the jaw.

His brother fell to his knees, clutching at his face. Sam was obviously not going to be of much help in this situation. I stepped into the latter's previous place, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. My breath rushing out in exasperation, I closed my eyes for a second.

A second. That was all that it took for me to make Dean Winchester fall in love with me.

Well, to convince his hazed mind that he _was._

"You don't need her, babe", I murmured, my lips moving closer to his ears. "You have me. You don't need anyone else."

He seemed hesitant. "But Jimi, she needs _me._"

Damn. Even while under the impression that he was infatuated with me, he still used that stupid nickname. Ass.

"No, baby, she doesn't", I replied through gritted teeth. I was going to have to resort to desperate measures.

I never liked having to do this. It always ended badly, and someone always got hurt.

"I'm sorry I have to do this, Dean", I said sincerely.

All the while, Sam had retrieved his dropped blessed iron knife and was creeping towards the tree behind which a beautiful woman was leaning, laughing.

Banshees, contrary to popular belief, were not harmless. They enjoyed toying with humans, and could appear as old women, beautiful maidens or horrifying monsters. Usually they preferred to prey upon strong men, and resorted to seducing them as young women.

And then they ate them.

The only way to ward one off- or to resist one's call- was to wear a Saint-Christopher's coin. Dean had obviously dropped his, but Sam seemed have retained his own necklace, and was therefore the only one who could now be trusted to kill what was believed to be the offspring of ghouls and the Fair Folk.

A baby born from a zombie and a fairy?

Not exactly the nicest monster on the block.

But what did fairies hate? What did the undead fear?

Iron. Anything related to religion.

That was why when Sam stabbed the damned thing in the chest and it uttered its final cry, Dean bolted forwards. It was too late though. I reached up and pulled his face down to mine, smashing his lips against my own.

I pushed him away just as quickly, retreating a good ten feet as Sam finished the banshee off.

"We done here?" I asked loudly. Sam nodded, and Dean stared at me with an awed look on his face.

Trying not to think of how he'd be for the next few days, I turned on my heel and walked right back to the car.

-O-0-o-0-O-

**Chapter 6: Get You on Your Feet Again**

-O-0-o-0-O-


End file.
